


The Odious Blenkinsop

by Evilida



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Boarding School, Gen, Hero Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilida/pseuds/Evilida
Summary: Bunny and Raffles at school.  Bunny writes a story in the school newspaper that enrages a short-tempered upperclassman.  Raffles being manipulative. Bunny being clueless.  Can be read as friendship or as pre-slash.  (Very pre-slash since Bunny is quite young here.) Also includes country house hi-jinks and jewel theft!The title is more P.G. Wodehouse than E.W. Hornung, but at least I resisted the urge to give Blenkinsop the first name Theodorus.Some period- and canon-typical xenophobic and/or racist comments, included because I don't want to whitewash the less attractive side of Raffles's personality or his milieu.





	1. Chapter 1

A.J. Raffles was the finest cricket player his school had ever produced. He was also keenly appreciative of beauty in all its forms, and his modest rooms reflected his refined tastes. There was, however, one item in his rooms that clearly did not belong: Ogilvie. Raffles regarded his fag with distaste. Ogilvie was round-faced and spotty and his features were coarse and rubbery. The boy’s ugliness repelled him.

However, the older boy’s dislike for the younger was not founded solely on aesthetic grounds. Ogilvie was a poor servant. He was careless and negligent in his duties. His efforts were so feeble that Raffles was often unable to tell whether or not his rooms had been dusted or his boots blacked. Worse yet, the annoying child besieged Raffles with requests for cricketing tips and disturbed the contemplative silence of his rooms with his inane schoolboy chatter.

The third and perhaps the most damning strike against the lad was his piety. Ogilvie was the grandson of a bishop and he had ambitions of becoming a missionary. In chapel, he sang hymns in a loud and tuneless voice quavering with sincerity. Raffles wanted a servant with a certain moral flexibility who could assist in enterprises likely to prove both profitable and amusing. Raffles doubted that Ogilvie’s conscience would be pliable enough for his purposes.

 

The champion cricket player left his rooms, leaving Ogilvie in charge of toasting the muffins for his tea, which would no doubt be charred black by the time Raffles returned. He crossed the landing to Blenkinsop’s rooms. The door was open, since it was Blenkinsop’s habit to hold open house every Tuesday afternoon, and anyone prepared to humour his whims and laugh at his japes was welcome. The fielder was surrounded by several of his cronies.   They were being served tea by Blenkinsop’s own fag, a sturdy little lad with blond hair worn slightly too long. The child was evidently of a timid disposition, for the rough jests and crude sallies of the upperclassmen had unnerved him, and his hand trembled as he poured from the heavy teapot.

“What have you done, you clumsy oaf!” snarled Blenkinsop, as a drop of tea landed on his trousers. “I’ve not even paid my tailor yet, and you’ve ruined my trousers already!”

He raised a fist at his fag, who dodged him, spilling more tea, this time on Blenkinsop’s Turkish carpet.

“I’ll clean it. I’ll get a cloth,” the boy promised, abandoning his duties as tea boy.

“Witless dolt,” Blenkinsop said, licking his finger and applying it to the stain on his trousers.

Raffles looked around Blenkinsop’s sitting room, which was usually dusty and strewn with dirty garments of a kind unmentionable in polite society. Though the room was not entirely clean - for it would take a dozen skivvies a week to put the place back into a decent state – its condition was noticeably improved since the last time Raffles had attended one of his team-mate’s Tuesday gatherings. There were no errant stockings in sight; no plates encrusted with the remains of long-ago meals. He looked down at the repast that Blenkinsop had provided for his guests. The crumpets had been toasted a perfect golden brown.

“G’day, Raffles,” Blenkinsop said lazily. “I’d offer you tea, but the blasted boy has run off, so you’ll have to find yourself a cup somewhere and pour it yourself.”

“No thank you,” Raffles said.

Just then the lad returned carrying a damp cloth which he went to apply to the carpet. One of Blenkinsop’s crew tripped him, sending him sprawling before them.

“That’s it. Kowtow to your betters like a heathen Chinese!” Blenkinsop said. His cronies laughed.

The young lad was red-faced, barely managing to hold back his tears.

“Your fag does not seem to have a taste for your wit,” Raffles observed with deceptive mildness, for he could not abide a bully.

“No, he doesn’t. He’s a milksop with no proper sense of humour. He’s called Bunny because he’s a right bunny at cricket - couldn’t hit a ball to save his life – but the nickname suits him down to the ground.   He’s a ‘wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie”, right enough,” Blenkinsop said, affecting an atrocious Scottish accent.

Raffles refrained from pointing out that the ‘wee beastie’ to which Burns’s poem referred was a mouse, not a rabbit.

“My fag has plenty of spirit,” Raffles said. “Ogilvie’s ripe for any kind of jest or mischief. If anything, he has too much spirit.”

“No such thing as too much spirit,” one of Blenkinsop’s cronies said.

“I like a quiet life,” Raffles said, not entirely truthfully, “and it sounds as though your Bunny would suit me rather better than Ogilvie.”

“You’re suggesting a trade?” Blenkinsop asked.

Raffles nodded.

“I’d want something in return,” the fielder said cannily.

“What say you to five Sullivans?”

“I say ‘done’ and I’ll shake your hand on it before you have a chance to change your mind,” Blenkinsop said, rising to his feet.

The boy called Bunny, still diligently dabbing Blenkinsop’s carpet, looked up at Raffles. A grateful smile lit up his red, tear-stained face.

 

Bunny was not the most decorative boy in the school. Although he had been spared the blight of adolescent spottiness - which would have made him quite unacceptable in Raffles’s eyes - his nose was snubbed and his eyelashes were so pale as to be almost invisible. Still, when Raffles was in an unusually charitable mood and the light was kind, the cricket player could see in him a likeness to Caravaggio’s German pageboy.

Neither was Bunny the brightest pupil in his form. Although he possessed a certain facility in putting words to paper, he did not have the talent for invention needed to make that skill profitable. He was neither quick-witted nor perceptive and he utterly lacked Raffles’s aesthetic sense. In maths and sciences, he struggled mightily.

Bunny’s one saving grace was his loyalty. Bunny knew himself to be a very ordinary boy, so he felt extremely fortunate to be able to enjoy the company of Raffles, who was in every particular so very much his superior. He attempted in his own poor way to show his appreciation to the sterling young man who had rescued him from Blenkinsop’s clutches. He polished his boots to a fine shine, made his bed, and dusted and tidied his rooms. Some of his admiration also found its way into the school newspaper, in which Bunny’s prosaic, workman-like accounts of school cricket matches suddenly sprouted a lush and purple profusion of adjectives whenever A.J. Raffles strode on to the pitch.

On his side, Raffles treated his devoted squire with long periods of indifference, occasional insults or acts of casual cruelty, and infrequent intervals in which he showed a genuine interest in his welfare. His capricious behavior bound Bunny to him much more securely than a regime of uninterrupted kindness would have, for it always seemed to Bunny that Raffles’s good opinion was just out of his reach, making him strive all the harder to obtain it.

 

During one of those happy periods in which Raffles seemed almost to relish the younger boy’s company, the two schoolboys were walking side by side on the grounds. Martins, who taught maths, gave them a suspicious glance, his look warning Raffles to stay on the path. Older students were encouraged to lead the younger ones, but definitely not into the bushes.

Raffles nodded cordially to the maths master and resumed his conversation.

“Your latest article in the school rag was pretty good stuff,” Raffles said. “A few too many adjectives, mind, but remarkably vivid. Reading it, I quite felt myself on the pitch again, the breeze playing with my ‘jet black curls’.”

Bunny blushed to hear his words quoted.

“Blenkinsop was not quite as pleased,” Raffles said, chuckling, “although your description of his poor showing was entirely accurate. Still, you might watch yourself for the next while. Blenkinsop has it in for you.

Ogilvie may not be happy with you either, since I expect he is bearing the brunt of Blenkinsop’s foul mood. However, I suspect that Ogilvie is too pi to do anything more unchristian than blank you in the halls.”

“You think Blenkinsop...”

“might try to get his own back,” Raffles said, completing Bunny’s sentence. “All too likely, unfortunately. I’ve told him that the fault was entirely in his own poor play and not in your reporting of it, but the man won’t listen to reason. His mother’s people are Neapolitan and he has a Neapolitan’s fierce pride and violent temper. If I were you, I’d stay out of his sight for a while.”

“But he’s right across the hall from you!” Bunny said. “How can I avoid him?”

“Well, I daresay I can dust my own pictures until Blenkinsop calms down,” Raffles said philosophically, “although I shall miss your soft-boiled eggs. Whenever I try to make them, they always come out too runny or too hard.”

“But I want to make your eggs!” Bunny blurted.

“Cheer up, dear boy! Blenkinsop hasn’t the mental stamina to stay angry for too long. Sooner or later, someone else will cross him and he’ll be furious at him instead. Still, best to lay low for a few weeks.”

“Weeks!” echoed Bunny miserably.

“My dear rabbit,” Raffles said, leaning down to look into the younger boy’s face, “I had no idea that this news would distress you so.”

He placed a comforting hand on Bunny’s shoulder.

“I’ll have to think upon it. Perhaps I can come up with a way to make that blighter forget all about his quarrel with you.”

Raffles glanced around quickly, making sure that there was no one was looking in their direction. Then he ruffled Bunny’s hair affectionately and kissed him on the forehead.

“I’ll come up with a plan,” Raffles said. “Don’t worry, Bunny. Leave everything in my hands.”

Then he strode off, leaving poor baffled Bunny to follow in his wake.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raffles wants to make the acquaintance of someone who may prove valuable in his later career.

The first eleven had been invited to the estate of Lord Oakley for an exhibition match against the best players of the County. A.J. Raffles was packing for the weekend - a task that should have been delegated to his fag Bunny Manders - when his teammate Blenkinsop burst his rooms without knocking.

Blenkinsop was red in the face with anger and was waving a slim bamboo cane in one hand. Raffles looked at him, a raised eyebrow the only outward sign of his disapproval of the other’s boorish behaviour.

“Where’s your fag? Where’s Manders?” Blenkinsop demanded, without even the elementary courtesy of a greeting.

“I have no idea,” Raffles said coldly. “I expect at this time of night, he is probably fast asleep in the boy’s dormitory.”

“Have you read what he wrote about our last match?”

“Indeed I have, and I cannot see anything in it that you could possibly find objectionable. In point of fact, he does not mention you at all.”

“Yes, he’s left me out entirely!” Blenkinsop raged. “I made a very good showing that day, and there’s not a word about it. I swear when I get my hands on him, he’ll wish he’d never put pen to paper!”

Blenkinsop flourished his cane, bringing it down hard on the arm of one of Raffles’s armchairs. It made a very satisfactory “thwack”.

“I’ll thank you not to abuse my belongings,” Raffles said taking a step towards the ruffian.

Blenkinsop made no reply. He turned and exited Raffles’s rooms as abruptly as he had entered them.

Raffles frowned. He had hoped that Blenkinsop’s anger would fade quickly, allowing Bunny to return to his regular duties. That no longer seemed likely.

Raffles found, rather to his own surprise, that he missed Bunny, and not only for his ability to boil an egg or shine a shoe. When the common room was too noisy, Raffles had occasionally allowed the younger student to use his room to revise. Bunny would lie on the carpet at Raffles’s feet, wrestling with Latin declensions, while the upperclassman read a newspaper or smoked one of his Sullivans. Raffles had found the boy’s presence curiously soothing. It was pleasant to be around someone so undemanding, who asked for nothing but the chance to be near him. Damn Blenkinsop for depriving him of that innocent pleasure!

 

The next day the first eleven went to Oakley Priory where they were met by Lord Oakley’s son Lucius, who had come down from university for the occasion and would be playing on the county’s side. He gave them a quick tour of the family’s home. There was the Long Gallery, where portraits of his ancestors were hung, row upon row of Oakleys. Most of them had the slightly protuberant eyes and wide mouths that were a family trait, making them look like an army of frogs. Lucius pointed out a portrait of his great-grandmother said to have been painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Then there was the Chinese room, full of delicate rosewood furniture, antique ceramics and silk paintings.

The final stop was the highlight for most of the boys. Lucius showed them his grandfather’s study. The old man’s hobby had been taxidermy, and the room was filled with his creations. Some of the animals were set in natural poses and tableaux, other creations were of a more fanciful stripe – a group of squirrels in waistcoats playing cards, a ‘mermaid’ created from the bottom half of a fish sewn on to the top half of a monkey.

“This will be the trophy for the winning team,” Lucius said, pointing to a stuffed bird. It was a raven, wings outstretched. In defiance of ornithological accuracy, its eyes were red. They were made of faceted glass and glittered malignly in the afternoon sunlight.

 

The boys’ afternoon was free to spend as they wished, but they met up for dinner.   With eleven males invited to dinner, Lord Oakley had been hard pressed to find an equal number of female guests to make up the numbers. Raffles found himself sitting next to someone’s elderly aunt, who could not hear a word unless it was shouted into her ear, and the local vicar’s youngest daughter. Raffles had met her before, at her father’s Saturday afternoon gatherings.  They had played badminton on the vicarage lawn on fine days, and charades or other parlour games on rainy days. The poor girl was quite overwhelmed by the magnificence of the Priory and the assembled company. She smiled shyly at Raffles but didn’t say a word.

The vicar was seated next to his daughter. He was conversing with one his parishioners, a worthy woman and the wife of an alderman.

“I hear that Tom Lincoln’s come back home to die,” the worthy said. “The city's killed him. The smoke’s got to his lungs and he’s coughing up blood. He’s a youngish man still, not much past thirty, and strong too, so he’ll put up a fight, but the outcome is sure. It will break his poor mother’s heart to see him go so slow.”

“Perhaps I should visit him,” the vicar said. “Offer him the consolation of the spirit.”

“It won’t do any good. A godless heathen he is and a heart-break to his respectable, God-fearing parents. Every night he’s at the Scalded Cat, the lowest kind of alehouse, not fit for any decent man, talking about his exploits in London. Bragging about what he ought to be ashamed of! To hear him tell it, he was the prince of thieves. He used to break into the houses of all the London lords and ladies late of a night and swagger off with their silver plate and their jewels.”

“And now he’s dying,” said the vicar, shaking his head. “Such are the wages of sin!”

Tom Lincoln sounded like an interesting person - much more interesting than anyone else the village had to offer. Raffles very much wanted to meet him. The challenge was how to make his acquaintance, since their paths were not likely to cross. It was highly unlikely that this reprobate would be invited to one of the vicar’s social afternoons, and Raffles could hardly knock on the Lincolns’ door and demand admittance.

The Scalded Cat seemed to be the only venue where he and Tom Lincoln could meet, but here too were difficulties. His school had strictly forbidden its pupils from entering this disreputable establishment.   Even if he were to ignore the prohibition, Raffles doubted that a public school boy would be welcomed by the low types who frequented the place.

He was enjoying the cook’s excellent brown Windsor soup when the solution came to him. His school had recently mounted a production of Macbeth, in which the fifth-formers had cunningly disguised themselves as Scottish lords with the use of theatrical make-up and false beards. Raffles had a good ear for dialects and he had already mastered the villagers’ countrified accent. With a false beard and a change of clothes, he would be able to pass as a local in the dim and smoky interior of the Scalded Cat.

Getting in and out of the school would be difficult on his own, but with an accomplice, that too became very simple. All he needed was someone to throw down a rope to let him in and out of the building. The snag was finding a person who could be trusted not to blab. Bunny Manders came immediately to mind. He’d do anything for Raffles – even run the risk of running into a wrathful Blenkinsop.

Reluctantly, Raffles decided that the risk to Bunny was too great. Bunny was a twelve year old child.   Blenkinsop was a hearty, muscular young man of seventeen with a violent temper. He was a foot taller than Bunny and outweighed him by at least four stone.

Damn the odious Blenkinsop!

Raffles looked across the table to Blenkinsop who was rudely ignoring the lady seated next to him and talking across her to Lucius. Perhaps Blenkinsop had used his free afternoon to cultivate Lucius’s acquaintance – for as the heir to the Priory estate, he was a man worth knowing – or perhaps they knew each other already. In any case, they had advanced to the stage where they using nicknames – Blenkinsop was “Blot”, and Lucius was “Lucy.”

After dinner, the gentlemen retired for the traditional port and cigars. Lucius and Blenkinsop were immersed in conversation. Blenkinsop was twisting the ornate ruby ring that he wore on his index finger, a family heirloom that he wore only on special occasions. The gesture seemed to indicate that he was not as sure of himself as he pretended. Perhaps he, like the vicar’s daughter, was intimidated by the wealth and power of the Oakleys.

 

While his team mates had spent the afternoon practicing or strolling the grounds, A.J. Raffles had been exploring Oakley Priory. In the very early hours of the morning, he walked silently down the unlit hallway, stopping outside the door of the room that had been assigned to Blenkinsop.   He turned the handle of the door, hoping that Blenkinsop had not locked it. His own room had lacked a key and could not be locked, and he hoped that the same might be true of Blenkinsop’s. If not, he had a piece of bent wire in his pocket, with which he might be able to turn the lock (although his skills in lock-picking were, at this point in his life, still rudimentary.) Fortunately, the handle of the door turned and Raffles entered the room.

The curtains were not fully closed, so he could see by the moon's light that there were two lumps under the bedclothes instead of one. Raffles took a cautious step forward. Lucius was next to Blenkinsop. Both were fast asleep, having indulged a bit too heavily in the wine at dinner and the port afterwards.

Raffles had never suspected Blenkinsop of succumbing to the Greek vice. He stood still for a moment, considering whether this unexpected turn of events would force him to alter his plans.

Then he turned around and walked to the dressing table. The locked box in which Blenkinsop kept his valuables was on the table, but there was no need for Raffles to force the lock. Conveniently, Blenkinsop had left his watch and fob, cufflinks, and ring lying carelessly on the dressing table. Raffles pocketed Blenkinsop’s ruby ring and then left the room, closing the door silently behind him.

Then he went down the grand flight of stairs to the main floor, heading towards the study that had belonged to the previous Lord Oakley. The servants had closed the curtains, but Raffles needed light to see what he was doing. He opened the curtains a few inches, but didn’t dare light a candle. He took  the stuffed raven into the light and used a penknife to gouge out one of its red glass eyes. Using the same implement, he pried the gemstone from Blenkinsop’s ring.  He replaced the stone with the raven’s glass eye. The gemstone went into the eye socket of the stuffed bird. Then he restored the stuffed raven to its accustomed place and returned to his bedroom, where he slept very soundly.

 

Blenkinsop woke up late. He was alone since Lucius, wary of discovery, had slipped away back to his own room just as the sun was rising. Blenkinsop noticed his missing ring right away, but since nothing else was missing, he assumed that he must have misplaced it. Perhaps it had rolled off the dressing table. He searched all the likely places and then, increasingly frantic, a number of unlikely places as well.

Then it occurred to him that Lucius might have taken the ring as a memento of their night together. Hair uncombed and with his shirt still only half-buttoned, Blenkinsop headed downstairs to find him.

Lucius had just finished his kedgeree when Blenkinsop burst into the morning room and insisted that he needed to talk to him in private. Lucius frowned.  He apologized to the other people in the room (including Raffles who was tucking into a plate of scrambled eggs), and allowed himself to be dragged into the hallway.

Blenkinsop had never possessed an ounce of tact, so his enquiry as to the whereabouts of his ruby ring sounded to Lucius very much like an accusation of theft.

“How on earth would I know where your blasted ring is?” Lucius exclaimed.

“It’s not in my room. Maybe one of the servants took it.”

“My family’s servants are all reliable and honest, and besides none of them has been in your room since last night.”

“Maybe one of them came in while we were sleeping,” Blenkinsop said.

Lucius blanched slightly at the idea of someone discovering them together. However, he shook his head firmly.

“Isn’t it much more likely that you just lost it? Perhaps it rolled under the bed.”

“I've looked there! I've looked everywhere!” Blenkinsop said. “Someone has taken it. We need to send for the police.”

Raffles, having finished his breakfast, strolled into the hallway.

“What’s all the to-do?” he asked.

“Blenkinsop’s lost his ring and he’s demanding that we search all the servants and call in Scotland Yard!” Lucius exclaimed.

Raffles chuckled.

“I know you’re fond of the thing, Blenkinsop, but it’s only costume jewelry. It can easily be replaced.”

“It is _not_ costume jewelry. It’s a family heirloom and the stone is a genuine ruby. It comes from my mother’s side of the family. Her grandfather was an Italian count. Its irreplaceable, and we need to call in the police.”

“Do you honestly believe,” Raffles said in a gently mocking tone, “that some cunning thief would walk right past the treasures in the Chinese room and the Joshua Reynolds in the Long Gallery and head straight up to your room to steal your poxy ring?”

He shook his head in wonderment.

“Let’s go up to your room, Blenkinsop. Come, I'll help you look for it.”

He headed up the stairs to Blenkinsop’s room.

Blenkinsop hesitated. He reached out and grabbed Lucius’s arm.

“Please, Lucy,” he pleaded, “if you’ve taken the ring as a souvenir, I understand, but I need it back. My mother will never forgive me if I’ve lost it.”

“I haven’t taken it,” Lucius said angrily, shaking him off. “I’m not a thief! How dare you accuse me of theft in my own home!”

He followed Raffles up the stairs.

Raffles had just enough time to enter Blenkinsop’s room and hide the ring in the toe of his team mate’s slipper.  He was waiting In the hall by Blenkinsop's closed door when Lucius arrived.

“I’m sure if we all look together, we’ll find it in no time,” Raffles said cheerily.

Raffles let one of the others find the ring. He was diligently turning up the corner of the carpet when Lucius gave a cry of triumph.

“Here it is,” he said.

Blenkinsop moved toward him to take the ring, but Lucius held it tightly. He walked to the window and pulled wide the curtain to examine it.

“Raffles is quite right. The stone is cheap glass. This is what you’re making such a fuss of!”

Lucius tossed the ring to Blenkinsop, who caught it awkwardly.

“I’ll thank you to leave the house immediately. Our coachman will drive you to the train station.”

“But the cricket....” said Blenkinsop.

“I’m sure we can find someone else to take your place,” Lucius said, by this point almost as red-faced as Blenkinsop himself. “Damn it, just go! If you’re not gone in half an hour, I’ll sic the damned hounds on you!”

 

The vicar’s son was recruited to take Blenkinsop’s place and the cricket match went off as scheduled. Lucius was distracted and played poorly. The school team won. Lord Oakley smiled as he handed Raffles the trophy. In truth, he was pleased to get rid of the ugly thing.

 

Bunny was now quite safe from Blenkinsop. The upperclassman was in disgrace. He’d been warned that any further misbehaviour on his part would lead to immediate expulsion. When Bunny had walked by him, headed for Raffles’s rooms, Blenkinsop had done nothing more threatening than glare at him.

“It’s very life-like, isn’t it?” Bunny said, as he dusted Raffles’s trophy. The stuffed raven had been given pride of place over Raffles mantle. “There’s something wrong with the eyes, though. They don’t quite match.”

“True,” said the ace cricketeer, “but I quite like it as it is. I think the mismatched eyes give it a kind of raffish charm.

Put on the tea, my dear rabbit, and then come sit beside me. I’m going to need your help this evening.”

Thrilled to be of service, Bunny nodded and rushed to fill the teapot.


End file.
